


Kitchenware & Candybars

by ThereminVox



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: F/M, Lawyer John, Pre-cult, self-indulgent character study?, tragic backstory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-25 13:07:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15641373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereminVox/pseuds/ThereminVox
Summary: To all these nameless feelingsI can't deal with in my lifeTo all these greedy peopleTrying to feed on what is mineYou've got to fill your hungerAnd stop fucking with my mindI know it’s time to leave these places far behind





	1. Yokan No Koi

**Author's Note:**

> Don't know where I'm going with this but the lyrics to No One's There by Korn supplied the bread crumbs (even though the title's a direct reference to an STP song). Oops.

 

 

The diminutive object enclosed by John’s perspired grasp was as a leaden weight, searing slowly but surely through each taut muscle straining against his palm.

 

Said object could have very well been considered hefty in weight due to the six-figured numbers attached to its substantial price tag.

 

 _Fuck me_ , he thinks as he peruses his form in the full-length mirror. He was dressed sharply, as per usual to honor his moneyed surname. However, it came as a surprise to note that his typical display of expense was downplayed a fair bit. Instead of adorning his standard ilk of imported silk ties from Italy accompanied by custom tailored three-piece suits, courtesy of Stuart Hughes, he opted for a more casual arrangement of slim fit black wool trousers, oxford/sneaker hybrid dress shoes, and a simple button down of periwinkle hue, snugly enhanced by beige Patagonia cashmere sweater. Normally, he preferred the full growth of his beard, well-trimmed for daylight propriety, but today behested a change as he glides the fingertips of his free hand along the heavy yet sparse array of stubble, satisfying himself with the rough texture before moving to run streaks through the results of his most recent haircut. It was still long enough to be combed through but too short for his regular slick combover. Much to his chagrin, his hair would actually revert to a natural wavy state when exposed to moisture but he expresses content with this current look as he styles the soft tendrils to a neat, tousled effect.

 

It was a special occasion, after all.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

St. Cecilia had been his restaurant of choice. The most expensive venue in Buckhead, if not all of Atlanta, booked two months in advance for the admittance of only two patrons. The manager was accustomed to his singular presence, reserving the Duncan title with near divine reverence. It just so happened that the woman who owned the establishment at the time had been an old client of his who wanted to return the favor of settling her tax evasion by offering any drink free of charge, as well as discounts on any meal of his choosing.

 

Being the gentleman that John portrayed himself to be, he kindly refused the offer, suggesting it would be bad for business, insisting that it was only part of his job. Of course John was nothing if not a man of astute discernment. He could acknowledge a pretty face and engage in some fleeting moments of coquetry but he could proudly admit his wistful thoughts were now at a time where sex had begun to mean something, beyond vain attempts at stifling hoarse appeals of the past.

 

Although he couldn’t deny the generous reduction on seafood. The place was renowned for its authentic Italian dishes, fresh off the European coastline, and John would be lying if he said he didn’t harbor a guilty pleasure for marine delicacies. Not only for consistency in superior taste but also for serving as an incidental yet compelling token of remembrance to his estranged eldest brother, of whom he could only afford a wave of salute when confronted by clients of Veteran variety.

 

Contrary to his congenial image, John was abhorring towards his daily assertion of pleasantries. Charisma was second nature and an otherwise stimulating incentive in the courtroom yet his public display of conformity and hedonic thrills was betrayed by the true face of loathing. So why the sudden change in sentiment? What inspired him to go to all this trouble of endeavor that didn’t consist of sustaining sybaritic desire and legal obligation?

 

As soon as John had been liberated from his parents’ unyielding regnant, setting off on his first flight and ultimate path towards a career in law, he was hesitant to do anything beyond what was expected during his first few months in the Ezra Stiles residential dorms. While Emory’s law department was perfectly reasonable, in addition to being John’s (secreted) first choice, the Duncan’s naturally had the framework of his actions outlined and finalized immediately upon inking their signature upon the dotted line. Engraving their possessing mark on those pristine, untouched sheets of adoption papers. Emory was prestigious but not Ivy League prestigious and at least John could agree (by the safety of his tattered thoughts) that it would be far too close to home.

 

It was a heady mix of sheer terror and unease, made heightened by foreign pricks of elation, that greeted his deadened senses as his seventeen year old mind traversed the novel landscape of New Haven, Connecticut: an even starker contrast to the derelict digs of Rome than that of Atlanta. Yale’s campus alone had been considerably more rich in design compared to Buckhead’s elaborate yet predictable profile. In such a way that appealed to his enduring eye for beauty, trying desperately to extract hints of pulchritude from even the most contemptible customs of humanity. As well, Westminister Schools paled markedly in comparison to the new student and faculty, who appeared relatively inviting, despite hospitality presenting as a veil of finer threads.

 

He went about that first semester demonstrating as the model pupil, paranoia digging urgent at the contouring ghosts of his conscience. Of course, from that moment on, vivid awareness fortified the assurance of his physical liberation. John Duncan was little more than a faulty tool whetted to excess. Had always evinced as a number in the winding series of minds offered to warp and submit as the Duncan’s thought fit. They had ultimately succeeded in their efforts for orchestrating this optimal commodity of religious indoctrination, epitomized by elusive outline of “The American Dream”.

 

Many an eye would shamelessly peruse him for these simple yet inflated attributes of excellence and, at each turn, he would take due notice. At first, traces of scopophobia and self-projected disillusionment denied him the pleasure of their appreciative glances. It became easy to _make_ friends but harder to keep them. Most would only flock to him as a platform for social mobility but, as time passed, with days progressively blurring to minutes, the select few who aimed to offer fondness and subsequent promises of abiding fellowship were exemplified to be kept at a fair distance by disparaging voices.

 

Appearance and charm were used to his advantage: weapons armed daily, at the ready, to keep issues of abandonment and threats of manipulation at bay. By administering the poison of his own tongue, stray fragments of his adoptive regnant could emerge in a favorable light.

 

Unfortunately, although unsurprisingly, it left a great deal to be desired.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Having finally been pried from relentless scrutiny, it was only so long before he fell prey to temptation. The first conquest had been a blank slate. A quick lay to abscond him of that belabored label of purity. Nine shots of bourbon, yet the sequence of liquid burns did little to relieve him from sobriety. He wasn’t one to question sexuality. Identity was expendable where more important matters were concerned. If anything, he was certainly more inclined, if not exclusive, towards the female variety. He was staunch in his dominance and while he often fancied a man’s appeal, he would limit to observe from afar, indulging himself only on certain inebriated occasions.

 

Any genuine sentiments, or semblance thereof, had been reserved towards women, for various untold reasons. Sentimental value from general perspective illustrated through panties he’d obtain as souvenirs, recycling as pocket squares for his Valentino tweed blazers. After every routine 3 am orgy session, he would opt to savor riveting and run-of-the-mill stories alike, but no matter how much he would pride himself on his understanding of the human psyche, empathy and, even more so, _sympathy_ , would persist to elude.

 

Thus the following moments to ensue, where his vision would glaze over in dying light of prosaic night, were painted by cocaine stains, matching the irreverent white of his sheets, merging seamless with drapes of spilled seed. Excess bodies would slip away to their respective dorms, no walk of shame to their name as the succeeding day would announce gratification at having shared sins of the flesh with the esteemed John Duncan.

 

The resulting silence was anything but comforting.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

For the remaining three years, it was a vicious cycle of addictive convention. Each day, a new strain of drugs, harder and more potent than the last. Each month, a fresh batch of vessels to dispose his transgressions, all of varying tones and misfortunes; none particularly fortunate in arresting his undivided attention.

 

Undergrad function had been satisfied at the tender age of twenty. Uninspired and despairing; vacant and undefined. What was a boy to do with his dying youth? These repeated actions of immoderation suffered well into his admittance into the Master’s program. Two more years of diluted yet still intensified practice. Challenges were few and far between for his reflexive discipline and exceptional aptitude.

 

_More machine than man._

 

From countless floggings to crimson-stained tiles, pain was the only pleasure John could ever know. Once his lean, prostrate physique graduated to adulthood, he had dabbled his hand through a number of BDSM affairs, surveying the most reputable nightclubs in Atlanta. Returning to the city to finish at Emory introduced him to numerous revelations. The Duncan Estate, situated in a garish neighbourhood on Peachtree Street, was barren upon entry, with only a nameless man occupying the kitchen.

 

“Hey kid. You John Duncan?”

 

Twenty-one year old John could only nod slowly in suspicion, frozen to the spot as the man approaches with clipboard and paper in hand.

 

“Don’t ask when or why but your parents left their inheritance to ya. Fuck knows where they are now. Got a call saying to reserve this place so I’m just here to secure my month’s salary. Said you should be getting a regular boost in trust funds via bank account. Lucky you, huh?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

A fairly distinguished law firm, erected in the bustling district of Midtown, awaited him on the eve of his 23rd birthday.

 

John supposed now was as good a time as any for specious new beginnings.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“I’m not one for small talk.”

 

“Neither am I”, he responds coolly, settling into the lignified surface of a stilted bar chair.

 

The young woman who’s piqued his evasive curiosity spares a glance to her right, offering John a hasty once over all the while giving nothing away with her stolid gaze. Her interest cedes to be occupied once more with the journal set before her, illuminated by an overhead skylight and riddled by (what he was sure to be) impassioned words.

 

“Seems you’re a bit overdressed. Whiskey Blue is on Asshole Avenue. Sorry to say your CEO comrades gave you the wrong address.”

 

The gruff chuckle juddering his throat is unrestrained as he keeps his gaze trained on the sharp yet soft planes of her side profile, beckoning the bartender forth with a come hither motion.

 

“I’m more partial to Holeman and Finch, personally. Still upscale but not _as_ pretentious. Depends on how you look at it.”

 

His order is a simple Negroni on the rocks, voice curt in delivery while expressing subtle hints of annoyance at sharing his lingering study of intrigue with the young man’s ardent manner.

 

“Oh, I don’t drink”, she rejoins with a quick raise of the head in acknowledgement before lowering again. He was glad the man took his cue to leave. Those dilating rings suggested lewd intent and John couldn’t ignore the odd twinge of possession that beset him. It seemed the girl revealed the same sentiment, waiting until he was out of range before adding, “And all the money in the world wouldn’t bribe me to sleep with you.”

 

Then again, maybe this noisome envy was justified.

 

“Wouldn’t have pegged you a day over 12 if not for that feisty demeanor.”

 

Her hands slip from their supporting placement beneath the jaw, dropping down to secure the bindings of the journal’s leather finish. He makes a mental note of her rich caramel complexion, nude arms contrasting attractively with the counter’s deep scarlet varnish. As she finally decides to extend mutual regard, he also took delight in the shape of her almond eyes. Warm chocolate coated her irises, embellishing a natural glister from which a tiny shadow of his reflection could be captured in the blending pupil.

 

“I’ll be 21 in April. The manager’s son and I happened to attend the same high school. Even though we’ve never spoken until now. He lets me ease through as long as I don’t order alcohol. Which I just stressed now so in case it didn’t translate… No thank you.”

 

“For someone averse to small talk, the best I’d gather so far is that you’re committed to the cause.”

 

It had been Happy Hour at The Righteous Room (as the dive bar was so aptly called) and John was relieved to be granted some much needed downtime after the firm had his ass handed to him, with every other new client requesting him for representation, as opposed to his colleagues. Where was that assigned secretary when he needed them?

 

“Let’s just cut to the chase. I’m John”, he asserts with his hand stretched forth in offering.

 

“And I’m bored”, she replies whilst ignoring his perfectly manicured hand and Rolex wrist. Her short, petite figure was met in full display as she pushes back against the counter, dropping down a few meager inches to reach the ground, wavy brown hair swaying just against her shoulder blades. John stores the memory of her modest yet defined curves hugged firm by a simple black tube dress for a later date, instead choosing to retract his arm, enjoying the little show of her reaching just so on tiptoe to grab the journal but not before opening to tear out a page.

 

Wordlessly, without granting a second glance, she slides a pen from the holder and scribbles something shielded from view before organizing everything back into place. In the next few moments, she’s thumbtacking the stray sheet of paper on the bark of the bar’s rooted centerpiece: a fully grown tree, branching out beyond the skylight.

 

He hadn’t a chance to watch her quickly scuffle away as he moves to retrieve the note, admiring the lovely handwriting before registering a phone number and signature beneath:

 

_Dibé Tsosie_

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Hm. Dibé means ‘Lamb’ in Navajo._

 

 _Interesting…._  



	2. Lamb of God

 

 

 

 _I never did get that drink_ , he muses, laying sprawled across the chaise lounge designer chair of a living room that was now bestowed in his name.

 

 

_Fucker probably would’ve forgotten the orange peel anyway._

 

 

Bare as the day he was born, his lax limbs emerge from inertia and he saunters to the kitchen, tongue murmuring with reflexive utterance.

 

 

“ _Behold the Lamb of God, who taketh away the sin of the world_.”

 

 

The scripture was ingrained, along with all other collective Bible verses, and he’d try in vain to scrub them from recollection. What prompted this practiced statement manifested as a certain little lamb who had currently captured his committed interest. She had vanished from impression for a three-day spell and John was practically suffering from withdrawal of her presence. She had left a mysterious imprint of motive on his otherwise nondescript performance. John had a habit of hoarding various identities to compensate for his lack of balmy memories.

 

He had been hesitant to call the number stashed away in the inner pocket of his favourite Burberry trench coat. It was a foreign feeling he hadn’t anticipated, creeping as an almost pleasant discomfort. Only a few minutes of interaction, yet he was smitten by the casual exhibition of natural beauty. She looked as if she had yet (if ever) to flirt with makeup. John couldn’t recall any woman he’d encountered who wasn’t dependent on caking their face to some degree.

(As if he could really tell the difference).

 

This Dibé, however, was a clear illustration of “barefaced” promotion. He could tell by the faint specks of acne scars, strangely attractive dark circles under doe eyes, and scant lining of eyelashes (courtesy of some hair pulling tendency, no doubt) that her skin was spared of any damaging chemicals. Not that he was expressly disapproving of makeup. There was just something refreshing about someone who appeared confident in their lone standing, unswayed by praxis and etiquette. Indifferent to seeking validation.

 

John ponders upon these minor yet meaningful features, departing the kitchen with steaming coffee in hand, cool March breeze sweeping uncomfortably along his nude crotch as he heads upstairs to the master bedroom (previously occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Duncan). Taking a small (scalding) sip and setting the mug down near his bedside, his muted stride leads him to a walk-in wardrobe, shelves stocked by diverse selection of formal and casual clothes alike.

 

With a heavy heart and bound ankles, John is met by resounding silence. In this humble abode, the oppressive walls were threatening to enclose as his thoughts betray him to an emphatic reel of phantom pains. Flickering images of a child’s cheek pressed flushed to polished tile, carmine flecks blurring in and out of vision as the image transitions to sinister sight of the child’s head being dipped and held repeatedly underwater, feeble shouts dimmed from hearing as the weight of an imperious hand denies breath to his nascent lungs.

 

Labored breaths, engulfed by submerged echoes of scream. Knobby knees, sore and etched with ease by brandishing grains. Mr. Duncan’s personal study had been endowed by three bookcases, shelves outlined by perfect rows of Holy Bible designation, all bearing the same deceptively gold stenciling, ecru pages frayed at the edges, rent at the binds. In a matter of moments, fine linens and tracing fabrics morph to monolithic design.

Nine delineating letters….

Nine shots of doctored bourbon…

 

 

Spates of sacred text commence a merciless assault as the child reforms to man, rendered helpless as his clinched lids and quivering fists weigh him down to kneel in the midst of enduring vacancy.

 

 

 _Please,_ he pleads, fingers raking desperate against his throbbing scalp.

 

_72 hours..._

 

Alone and defying of his urges for three days.

 

 

Every inch of defenseless flesh trembles under sterile beams of light and John can do little but succumb to its routine claim. Curled and tense, he remains, head bowed, feet tethered by clinging grief as his ears strain against returning drone of alarm. His gaze is glassy and distrait as he rises steadily, focus distracted from the tawny coat urging his attention, instead guiding measured pace to draw and don a pair of boxer briefs. With unhurried steps, his destination leads him to the source of dinning noise, hovering fingerpads with dexterous precision to press fixed over the snooze button.

 

 

Few seconds were spared before definitive surge of purpose guides his now vigorous stride to that nettlesome ticket of favor enticing his deprived physicality.

 

 

 _7 missed calls. 3 unread texts,_ is what the pellucid screen reads before disappearing from lock screen view. Only one call mattered and just now, John takes earnest care to unfold the sheet of notebook paper, hardened stare determined towards engraving the writing to mind, replacing repressive deluge of commandment from recognition.

 

 

A rapid thumb is staunch in precision as it transfers the written cursive to text, listing the contact to ‘Favorites’ before settling upon the call icon.

 

 

His heart skips three beats to match the lingering dial tone, expressing a brief stroke of fear that his haunting spirit of reverie would still be seized by slumber. Or worse, amnesic of his fugitive face, flash of an unrecognizable number overlooked by groggy glaze.

  
  
  
  


“...”

”...”

”...”

 

”....Hello?”

  
  
  
  


 

“It’s John.”

  


He doesn’t care how flinty and imperative his tongue sounds in this premature hour, transparent sense of urgency bleeding vulnerable through anguished plea.

  
  
  


 

 

“ _I need to see you.”_  



	3. Big Empty

 

 

 

 

“As much as I’d like that…. I don’t think I’m in the right position to have you visit.”

 

John was becoming increasingly exasperated by the second. All that troubled his mind was not wanting to be in this house alone, plain black long sleeve tee and slacks thrown hastily on in a vain attempt to transmit clarity.

 

“Just tell me where you are and I’ll bring you back to my place.”

 

“If this is some front for requesting a booty call-“

 

“ _Please.”_

 

The line went silent for a moment and John was prepared to expect an inevitable hangup.

 

“...Okay.”

 

A subsequent telling of address is what John clings to before ending the call, all but breaking into brisk sprint with a light cardigan slung over his shoulders.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Dibé’s skin felt inflamed by John’s fervent stare, rising hairs biting against the early Spring air. In the front seat of an immaculate Mazda MX-5, adorned by sleek grey lacquer and perfumed by musky scent of fresh leather, her arms were secured around a stuffed animal, calf muscles wedging a Slazenger rucksack between. She keeps her eyes trained on the dashboard and windshield’s horizon, briefly wondering why in all hell he decided 7 am was an appropriate time for visiting hours. She didn’t think their first real meeting would be set in such an urgent fashion.

 

She’d be lying if she said the static tone of supplicating voice hadn’t caught her off guard. Hell, she was both terrified yet proud of herself for actually _answering_ the call, knowing immediately who the unknown ID could be, considering her contacts were limited only to family and the area code was patently Georgian. However, she was always loathing of phone calls. The awkward silence that accompanied. Not to mention that involuntary cotton mouth and obnoxiously high-pitched, quavering tenor (more tiny and shrill relative to her usual inflection).

 

Not many remnants of sleep had to be blinked from vision and the bricking sharpness of sensory overload only exacerbated the grim feeling settling once more in that moment, goading her to muster the courage to tell the man to take her back to the comfort of her own habitat. In familiar lengths of abiding isolation.

 

Although she had to admit, it was nice seeing him again and her daily musings since that encounter had plagued her to the point of near mania. From any other perspective, one would have claimed the man in the driver’s seat was out of their league. Indeed, he was strikingly handsome, appearing clean-cut in simple yet sleek all-black formal attire. It was upon making this observation when she had noticed they were fairly matching in dress code, with her leather jacket, coupled by black tank top and skinny jeans attended by a pair of weathered combat boots. This humble admission had been short-lived as her appreciation rose to his own, eyes perpetually captivating in that unwavering intensity. But she couldn’t find the shame to look away. There was something vaguely vulnerable in those baby blues that she couldn’t quite place. Further anemic shades of blue were layered just so as to tickle her heart, yet with little jocundity to its game.

 

“As cliché as it sounds, I did just bring you here to talk. I can’t guarantee nothing else will happen. That would be _your_ decision. There’s a lot of questions running through my mind, and I know you’re probably uncomfortable with the sudden notice but for right now I’m especially curious about your little friend there.”

 

The Dead Sea finally aimed to part, searing graze of eye contact swiftly severed as he motions his head towards said furry object in firm grasp. It was a sable poodle, with fraying red ribbons tied in bows on each pendent ear. What had caught his singular intrigue, however, was the single eye it adorned. The other had been missing; presumably worn from age, vanishing from stitched orientation.

 

“But first”, he continues without giving her a chance to respond. “Stay right there.”

 

Confusion furrowed her eyebrows as she watches him unbuckle his seatbelt, nice shape of ass, and overall rear view of body, rewarding her interest before the thudding sound of car door closing ceased the recurring ding of corresponding alarm. Panoramic scrutiny observes his lithe form making elegant strides around the hood before stopping before her window. Only now did she recognize its slight tinted tinge as the same motions of before repeat themselves through inverse reflection, nimble hand reaching out, illuminated by faint ray of sunrise, waiting patiently for an accepting exchange of touch.

 

Mentally she scolds herself at the inevitable rise of heat spreading flush across her cheeks as she moves one hand to press snug into his frustratingly warm and firm grip. With only one foot out the door straining to stand, Dibé isn’t offered the chance to grab her rucksack before being gently hauled altogether, ramming soft yet clumsily into median expanse of solid chest. Her furry friend had been nudged between them below the belt but she doesn’t have a second to look up and react to resulting expression of smug satisfaction when John moves quickly to retrieve her rucksack, slinging over a shoulder, and, with fitted cardigan sheathed, appearing as a preppy schoolboy. Much to her amusement.

 

She couldn’t help but stand there, dumbfounded, looking to a lavish stretch of architecture, unmindful of fingers burning comfortably into her lower back as the luxury home panned closer in view.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Dibé was at a loss for words, stepping upon the threshold, being greeted by the sight of high-end interior design. Adhering to her penchant for candid concession, she wasn’t at all impressed, in the typical sense. Mid-life crises were a normal occurrence throughout adolescence and identity had been undervalued, if at all, even at this nearing stage of development.

For clarity’s sake, she had to oblige pleasantries and yield to the supposed transformation symbolizing first leave from artless youth.

Yes, she would be an ‘adult’ in the next 20 days but would it make any discernible difference to her shadow of avolition?

 

Delusively covetous gandering could appreciate the finer wares of capitalism but that wasn’t particularly warranting of any envious sentiment. Residing in one place for an extended period of time was already monotonous enough, regardless of environmental conditions.

 

“Invite me into your home and don’t even offer a drink?”, she remarks with a drip of sarcasm. The image presented before her made it seem as if they were a married couple arriving home from work at the same hour, hypothetical husband sauntering to a modish couch centering the spacious living room before sinking down to lay supine, arms folded behind his head with her sack resting near his feet.

 

“Oh? I thought you didn’t partake in the Devil’s nectar”, the equally sarcastic tongue inflects.

 

“Religious is the last thing I’d expect you to be. Coming from experience, only a true _Suthun_ Baptist would refer to alcohol with that sobriquet.”

 

Her words are steady but the sway of her legs approaching the couch contradicts that burst of confidence, briefly averting her attention from the acute glare trained on her tentative form. She settles into the buffed cushion, rigid bearing evident by awkward posture.

 

“Truth be told..., I was lonely.”

 

“What? No harem to entertain you for the week?”

 

John chuckles before moving to a sitting position, sliding closer with half an arm’s length distance to front the learned charade of chivalry.

 

“Considering I essentially just charmed the pants off your grandparents to get you here, I can understand the religious sentiment. My parents were more or less the same in that regard….”, he says distantly.

 

“And you’re telling me this, why?”

 

“Hm, let’s see”, he lilts, thumb and forefinger rubbing his chin, “You’re easy to talk to. You don’t play mind games, if that scathing tongue is anything to go by. It’s damn refreshing having someone who tells it like it is. The concept of stranger means nothing to me, so one can never be too personal. Last time I checked, we’re both _consenting_ adults”, he emphasizes with a subtle raise of the brow.

 

“Living with my grandparents isn’t a personal choice but couple financial woes with their overbearing presence enforcing pious regimen and you’re left with some softcore Stockholm Syndrome.”

 

“Well. If a sugar daddy advent is in your future, look no further”, he ends with dramatic show of arms outstretched.

 

“Speaking of, shouldn’t you be clocking in at some fancy job right about now? Friday’s still a work day and I don’t see you living only on your parents’ deserted trust fund.”

 

“I could say the same for you, _Ms_. Tsosie.”

 

His hand raises as he gives a mock glance at his watch.

 

“I think you can still make it to that Recreation and Leisure Studies course. I’m sure they won’t mind the snail pace.”

 

Dibé raises an eyebrow and suppresses a laugh at that zany remark, internally pleased at his unexpected admission of eccentricity. (She initially  just passed him off as yet another stuck-up rich, pretty boy.) She had only given him her number to have her expectations confirmed with him never calling.

 

In the end, she was glad he did.

Truth be told, she was lonely as well.

Had always been.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

A few hushed moments had passed as they both shuffled against the couch, soft orange glow radiating from folding glass doors and putting Dibé’s mind at ease, comfortably settling with poodle still snugly embraced. There was enough room for her and John’s legs to lay side by side. It was all a matter of time, as she feels less uncomfortable under the man’s emphatic stare.

 

With a small, giddy smile, she relishes the wave of pesky inhibitions beginning to wash away.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The following hours were spent loitering aimlessly, conversing about random tidbits, exchanging intimate details. The clock was nearing noon when Dibé began to succumb to drooping lids. She hadn’t mentioned it, but sleep had eluded her the past three nights. Fortunately, online classes were her main priority, affording her scattered intervals of rest throughout the day. The same occurred now as she tries to stay awake, nagging whispers  attempting to indulge her voice of reason. Of a neurotic grandmother behesting her punctual return.

 

“It’s alright if you want to sleep”, John murmurs near her ear.

 

It was just the right incentive to have her fade from reservation.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

John wasn’t sure how to feel. Humor as a defense mechanism was the most uninspired practice but with this new echo chamber, contrived reflex was cast away to limbo.

 

His eyes peruse the peculiar subject of his musings for a final undue time, face inexpressive under heated blaze of Sun.

 

Unrepentant he is, in his desire, hovering carefully over her serene form to take the rucksack tucked by the edge near her head. Aside from a few copies of classic literature and a sketchbook, his eyes capture a glimpse of sought treasure.

 

Each journal entry was dateless, in absence of title. Handwriting, neat and concise upon each sheet of lineless expanse.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

_I was 8 years young when I received this lovely stuffed black poodle as a gift for Valentine orientation and, after 12 years, it still bears anchor to my heart. I never sleep without them, and a good night’s rest, if any can be granted, escapes my eyes if they aren’t within my grasp._

_I’ll take minor yet meaningful moments to examine the downy expanse of their features, stopping to give ample appreciation towards the single eye they adorn. This is platonic reverence. Nothing more, nothing less. “A true friend ‘til the end”, as proverb would have it. A hazel iris that sparks recollection upon reflective glance. Bittersweet memory stored among the weathered cotton of a finely stitched time capsule._

_I’m reminded of that daunting time, roughly a decade ago, at the tender age of 11, whilst my naive, rebellious, and thoroughly dispirited mind sought a swift escape and aimed to veer off through street lamp lit night, feet pedaling upon a child’s bicycle, progressive in faltering resolve. The clock’s hand had chimed halfway through the midnight hour and my legs had been cursory yet deft in movement, vision blurred and chest caved by racking of soft sobs in the quiet living room of my aunt’s apartment._

_Just after Christmas signed the urging method of hasty departure. Unlike her mother, who sported a perpetual hawk’s eye, she was liberal in security, with no alarm system to be found. Thus, my choice of slumber was not upstairs in the guest bedroom but rather on the couch downstairs where the creaking echo of steps could not be captured by the ever vigilant ear. Therein, my downy companion served as a beacon of reassurance._

 

 _Faulty, yet still encouraging nonetheless._  
_We slipped silent through the patio doors, cornering around to two sets of bikes belonging to either variant of cousin and opting for the bigger yet still small vessel for transport. With each swelling second, my heart mimicked but still I grasped firm along the handlebars, right wrist weighed down by unnamed package of gaming console attended by clothes-filled luggage with a furry mass wedged ahead against the erratic throbs of my chest. The sight of occasional eyes spotting me roaming about the empty streets in the dead of night exacerbated the lingering pulse of anxiety as I reached the beginnings of a steep hill leading up._

_By that point, my breaths had become increasingly labored in the brisk January air, harrowing pangs of realization besetting the frailty of my divergent thoughts. But, still, I pushed through, halting halfway in an area of pitch dark, disposing most of my belongings along the grass layered on one side of the road. Only my clothes remained and my furry friend was a light yet oppressing burden as we pedalled on to the first emergence of busy roads, even in that unseemly hour._

_No one was any the wiser to this young girl, perhaps appearing as a deer in headlights upon sight, as I quickly moved to the other side, the plight of my fatigued lungs pleading for intermission, no longer determined in making either turn to steer off into unknown darkness along treacherous highways._

_My destination led me to my second aunt’s house (they had lived nearby in neighbouring suburbs) where my now tear-stricken cheeks were illuminated by amber glow before the garage door and vacant parkway. With remaining luggage and companion in hand, I stride weary to the front door, helplessly ringing the doorbell for a total of ten tones._

_No one had answered the call but the following day, she had been there all along. I had left my clothes strewn across the bench sitting before her porch and ultimately took leave with only my downy confidant being all left in possession. It wasn’t until I swerved the corner, still with her house in view, stopping before a ditch and with an impossibly heavy heart, deigning to throw the stuffed animal, watching as it lay neglected along the concave._

_I returned to the apartment, severely and utterly alone, chest on the verge of collapse as my limbs found little solace in the stinging cold of leather finish, suffering through minutes of now audible sobs that would finally put my soul at ease._  
_I had expected the discarded items to be taken the next morning, grass absent of any anomalous objects, but my heart became suspended in animation as I noticed my fleecy friend had been untouched and not at all displaced. But, I ignored them upon initial observation. I wanted to forget all traces of the previous incident of folly. My grandparents had returned to pick me up and it was their scrutinizing eyes who spotted the black furs through the first rays of sunrise._  
_To this day, every sentiment of tenderness is moored by them and I can’t imagine the thought of that singular eye being forever lost from impression. It was always that one missing sew of eye that evoked some token of serendipity._  
_Upon that fateful reunion, my downy companion would finally seek to abscond a nameless face._

_Forever illustrating as a reverent ode to Odin._

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"How did those lyrics go?", John mutters to the empty air.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

_Time to take her home_

_  
_ _Her dizzy head is conscience laden_


End file.
